Nikki Guerlain

For all appearances I’m living the typical low-lifer’s fantasy: I’m an important criminal with a life full of action and intrigue. I know what you are thinking. You’re thinking: wow, this guy’s really full of himself. Get a Life. But, I know the real score: I’m just some ordinary loser in constant pursuit of The Fix. Any fix. Pussy … drugs … board games … whatever.

Skipping through the park, jazz hands out, I was waiting for my friend to return from some business about a girl, when I spotted a squirrel and decided to skip after it. It was in no hurry, allowing me to maintain a fairly close distance. Like me, it seemed to be enjoying the first sunny day of summer.

We were back at The Neon Boneyard drowning bad memories of Venice Beach in Bloody Hippies—100 proof pot vodka steeped in crushed organic tomatoes and horseradish, served in a genitalia shaped gourd, rimmed heavily in sea salt, garnished with a generous spear of pickled celery.

A fat man wedged between the creamy thighs of a naked woman is giving it to her real good. I can tell from his short thrusts, the bored look on her face that he has a small cock. The woman tries to speak to me, her crimson mouth moving, but it’s all croaking to me. All the same, I say to her, “Why, yes, I’d love to tap that ass, but I’ve got a job to do and by god I’m going to do it, because a man without conviction is nothing more than a limp dick with nowhere to go.”